


Rain

by surefire



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Fluff, John's POV, M/M, POV First Person, Pre-Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, i mean for gods sake why did i write this in first person, very old fanfic so yeeeeah
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-23
Updated: 2015-10-23
Packaged: 2018-04-27 18:11:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5058763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/surefire/pseuds/surefire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>And now for the age old trope that I will never get tired of for as long as I live.</p>
          </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Setting: 221B Baker Street  
Time: Early Morning  
Weather: Has been raining for days; Sherlock need to see sunlight soon for I am beginning to think if he doesn’t, they might need to put him in an asylum.

I woke to find the sound of dripping water to my right. At first I assume it is just the rain out side, but then I get the feeling of something cold and wet slowly creeping closer towards me. I leap up, a number of possibilities crossing my mind, only finding a dark spot next to me. A steady drip from above me is making it spread out slowly.

“Sherlock!” I yell in no particular direction. “The roof is leaking.” I should have thought this through, because when has Sherlock ever given a straight answer with this sort of thing. Still, can’t say he didn’t try.

“Why is it leaking?” He shouts back, his voice coming in the direction of his room, and though the door by the sound of it. “Why do you think it’s leaking!?” I shout back in sarcasm. Great, I think, now I’ve given him something to explain to the “lower life form”. I imagine him collection his thoughts, preparing to storm me with reason.

“It could be the fact that it has been raining for four days!”

I suppress the the want to shout “No shit Sherlock” in his direction.

“This,” He continues, “Is causing the roof above your head, that is considerably old and, has in this case, not been repaired for over ten years, to become water logged and drip into your room!”

Not wanting to continue this shout battle across the flat, I carefully get out of bed and slip on a pair of slippers along with a robe over my T-shirt. Walking into the living room, the smell of wet wood and cloth is everywhere. “Sherlock, you’d better come out here and take a look at this!”

Sherlock stumbles out and looks slightly put-out about the room. It has at least a few centimeters of water covering the floor. Everything else is severely drenched. the room looked as if a class of grade schoolers had been given water-machine guns and told to destroy each other. Except these grade schoolers didn’t have the best of aim.  
“It could have been worse.” That's all he says. All our belongings are soaked, most beyond repair and he is choosing now to be optimistic. First Captain Obvious, now Mr. Optimistic. “How can you say that?” I ask in disbelief. “Your violin,” I look over to where his violin had once been kept, its gone. “It’s in my room.” Sherlock responds with a smirk. “I needed to discover what moist furniture would smell like so I canceled Mrs. Hudson’s appointment to get the roof repaired.”  
I look at him like he is completely insane, which he probably is.

“You knew this would happen?” Aghast, I step over to the desk. It appears that he also moved our computers into his room.

“Mrs. Hudson is going to be cross.” I threaten.

“ She won’t know that I was the cause. It’s not like I control the weather.” He shrugs his shoulders as if its no big deal, then goes over to the couch and sniffs it. “Perfect, I have the answer now.” He produces a pen and paper from the right pocket of his coat and jots down a quick note.

“Please text Lestrade and tell him it was the woman’s wife and not her son.”

I slip my hand into my pocket on instinct, forgetting that I am wearing my robe, and not my coat. Surprisingly, I find it anyways there. “Sherlock! Did you set this up?” I demand, as I pull out my phone and show it to him.

“What makes you think that?” He asks, a tint of innocence in his voice.

“You prepared for this. Canceling Mrs. Hudson’s appointment, re-locating our computers, and your violin. And now this,” I wave the phone in front of his face. “It was planted in my robe pocket by you, because I know I certainly didn’t.” I am beyond pissed now, I am angry.

Sherlock turns his face away from me, most likely to stifle a laugh.

“Good deduction, my dear Watson. But you failed to notice that your laptop is still in the desk drawer.”

I lunge at the drawer, yanking it open to see if he’s telling the truth. Only to find it empty, aside from a black pen that rolls into a corner.

“Definitely the woman’s wife.” My colleague confirms, grinning at my reaction to his trick and motioning for me to finish the text.

“So, this is case closed?” I ask, not sure if his little prank was part of the conclusion. “Afraid so,” He responds, now wondering what he is going to sit on with all the furniture in its current state. “I had hoped it would be more difficult, this has been our first case in weeks and it will be boring without anything to do now. You’d better go and inform Mrs.Hudson about the roof, supposing that she doesn’t already know.”

At that moment Mrs. Hudson’s voice, growing in volume as she ascends the stair, invades our conversation. “Sherlock, John! I think something has spilled in your flat!” Her voice is cut off when she sees the state of our flat. “Oh, well you two know already. I should have gotten that bloody roof fixed before all this happened. Now I was certain I had called someone to get it patched up, but I must have only imagined it. I am terribly sorry boys, your belongings must be ruined.” She inspects the armchair and gives a pitying frown at the rest of the room.

“Don’t despair, Mrs.Hudson. I’m sure all will be well in a few days time.” Says Sherlock, clapping his hands together as if he had just had a brilliant idea. He strides over to the stairway. “John and I will be around in a few for tea. All expenses for the roof, I will pay.” He promises, quickly grabbing his scarf and descending the stair.  
“Sherlock!” I call after him. “You can’t walk around the city like that. You still haven’t changed clothes!’

His response: “Neither have you!”


	2. Lunch

Setting: The streets and shops of London  
Weather: Still raining  
Time: Morning

I grab my coat and umbrella, and Sherlock's coat as an after thought, before stepping outside into the streets of London.

The people who are on the streets are scarce, and certainly none in their nightclothes, so it was simple to spot my man. I slip on my coat, open the umbrella, and sprint over to Sherlock. He is moving at a brisk pace, the collar of his shirt turned up, hands deep in pockets. Honestly, he has collars on all his tops and never turned any of them down for a second. “You might want to slip this on.” I suggest, handing him his coat and holding the umbrella over the both of us.

“Ahh, yes, thought I might be forgetting something.” He sounds a bit flustered, be this could be the shock of the cold rain soaking him from head to toe. Then again, this is Sherlock Holmes, it has to be something more than that.

“Sherlock, are you feeling alright? You seem a bit more distant than usual.” I look at him questionably, trying to hold back my concern.

“Yes, yes. All is well.” He brushes away the question like a bothersome fly. Reading words is not a good sign in his given state either.

“Do you...” I start, scanning my mind for a solution to the end of the question. “Do you want to go get something to eat?” There that should be good enough. We both haven’t had breakfast and a warm meal will do us both good.

“Yes, that sounds like a good plan...” His answer trails off. This is not looking good, something big is distracting him and it can’t be a case so what is it?

“Right.” I grimace, but turn it into a smile. “Let’s signal a cab.”

I quickly grab the attention of a cabby and we are soon on our way to a dinner. This is when I realize Sherlock is not wearing shoes. “Where are your shoes? You can’t walk around London without shoes on!” Sherlock glances down at his feet. “An unimportant detail in the current situation.” He responds.  
“No. You’ll freeze without anything covering your feet.” I explain, pulling off one slipper after the other. I have socks on under them, so I don’t care, Sherlock is more important at the moment.

The cabby gives us a look that most likely had only been given to children before. “He.. has problems,” I explain. “Something up here.” I motion to my head, He nods,, but I fear I will have to tip him extra. Did I just tell someone that Sherlock is crazy?

Sherlock refuses the slippers at first, but after further arguing, he agrees. “Didn’t you think to put your shoes on before leaving the flat?” I ask, unsure if this is just another trick. “The thought did not come to mind. I was preoccupied with other subjects.”  
“Good, so you’re not crazy?”

“Not to my knowledge...”

He is still not focused, his eyes find an object out the window, and follow it until it is out of sight.

“Are you sure something is not up?” I continue to pester him. “Yes, I’m sure!” He turns toward me and stares straight into my eyes. “I’m not going insane. I’ve just been trying to work out a..., problem, for a long time.” he chuckles nervously. I try to help. “Maybe you could tell me what’s bothering you, to get another’s perspective on it.”  
“This is not as simple as a pair of shoes, John.”

“Then just tell me what’s wrong!”

The cab halts, not giving him a chance to answer me. Sherlock wastes no time, and is out on the street in a second.

I pay the driver and join my companion. We enter the small dinner and are silently greeted by a waiter who gives us a wave and a nod. The waiter seems to be the only other human in the dinner, not too may want to travel far to get food in this weather.

Sherlock’s eyes scan the room, but I can tell he’s only half-heartedly tearing away the secrets of it and its occupant.

We take a booth near the window , I know Sherlock enjoys watching the people go by. Our waiter takes out orders and then leaves. We are left alone inside the dinner.  
I notice that the lights are dulled inside the dinner, only half of them are on, possibly due to a power shortage, or because not too many people are visiting. Sherlock could have worked this out already, but his face is still aloof to me.

“John, do you ever with life was easier?” I’m taken aback by his question, when has he showed interest in my wishes and daydreams?

“Sometimes, back in the war.” I answer, “I wished it was easier to stay alive, but not anymore.”

I smile creeps onto Sherlock’s face, “I think if it were easier, then people would waste it even more than they do now, but what is the use of wishing? I my opinion is that it should be harder.”

“Life? You think life, should be harder?”

“Isn’t that what I said?”

Two more customers arrive.

“Are you going to tell me now what was bothering you?”

“Is. Is bothering me.”

“Right, is bothering you; are you going to tell?”

He inhales sharply. “I could think about it.” The waiter brings us out food, and leaves wordlessly. “Poor boy.” Sherlock says after he leaves, “Make the mute work the morning shift.”

“You don’t know that he’s mute, Sherlock.”

“I don’t? He hasn’t said a word sense we walked in, nor when the other customers came in. And when we order our food it was the same. You probably didn’t notice the medical band that showed when he lifted his arm; he was quick to pull his sleeve back over it so we wouldn’t see it. I don’t think I missed anything worth too much importance.” I give a smile, letting him know I am impressed without saying it. “Do you want to go home now, Sherlock?” He looks at me with pleading eyes. “Yes.”

We leave payment for our barely touched food, and exit.


	3. Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And now for the age old trope that I will never get tired of for as long as I live.

Setting: 221B Baker Street  
Time: Evening  
Weather: A slight drizzle, but still just enough to call it rain.

Mrs. Hudson arranged for someone to come by and fix the roof in a few days. The three of us spent the rest of the afternoon drying out books, curtains, rugs, and walls. By the time dinner came was are all exhausted and ready for a long break. Mrs. Hudson insisted on preparing dinner for “us boys” before we all turned in. I was not one to argue, not wanting to waste anymore money of time buying food Sherlock wasn't going to eat.

With the furniture pushed into the corner to let the floor boards dry out, Sherlock and I sit cross legged on a blanket, waiting for the food.

I pick up the newspaper, Mrs. Hudson must have brought it in from the doorstep. No one has bothered to put it on the desk, so it is laying on the floor next to me. “I can’t believe you did all this just to solve that ruddy case,” I say, chuckling.

Sherlock smiles, it’s good to see him smile after this long and tiresome day. “I’m just glad,” He responds, “That you didn’t tell Mrs. Hudson that I canceled her first appointment.” I stifle my laughter. “All just to see what the bloody couch would smell like afterward!”

He joins my laughing, but not before pointing out, “And the floor. The floor also has an interesting oder.”

I set down the paper and lie down on the blanket. Sherlock, who was facing the window, turns his head to observe me. I can tell by the way his eyes are darting around, that he is reading me.

Then, unexpectedly to me, he stretches out next to me, leaving not to much room between us.

I will now switch to the third person perspective for the following events.

They lie there, Sherlock and John, staring into each other’s eyes, trying to read the other one’s mind. What is he thinking of? What does he want? Along with many other questions.

The deep stare is finally broken when Sherlock blinks. John shakes his head to rid himself of the thoughts, and sits back up. “Mrs. Hudson should have dinner ready soon.” He says. He doesn’t want her to find him and Sherlock doing anything in that sort, but what if? No. John tries not to think about it. There’s no use fantasizing. Sherlock stays put.

Dinner is very silent. Mrs. Hudson thinks it is only because of the long day of insistent work, but does not question the subject further. She is also tired and would rather not find out what other things the two of them have been doing today. They were gone for quite sometime this morning. She thinks to herself, And without proper clothes too. She adds.

Taking this into account she cleans the dishes for them, and leaves soon afterward.

The flat is quiet once more, very quiet.

John’s thoughts are of sleep and bed. He walks into his room before realizing his bead has been striped of its blankets and sheets leaving a naked mattress. He sighs, this realization has woken him up just enough to wonder where he will sleep tonight. He decides to take a risk, and go to Sherlock’s room.

John walks slowly down the hall, wanting to stay in his own room, and wanting to continue to the other at the same time. He makes no effort not to be heard, because he doesn’t care if Sherlock knows he is coming or not. Maybe Sherlock already has worked this out. Maybe this is another experiment.

His progress is stopped when his phone starts buzzing from one of his pockets. It’s Lestrade, he has another case for them. Good. John thinks, now if this goes badly I have a backup story.

He continues down the hall.

Sherlock’s down is open, the light is off. He must already be in bed. Maybe I should go back.

“John who texted?” Sherlock inquires, his voice slightly muffled by a sheet.

He knows I’m here, no going back. “It was Lestrade, he says he has a new case for us to start in the morning.” John struggles to keep his voice level.

“John come here.”

John finishes the few steps to his door and peers inside. Sherlock is laying on his side facing the window, leaving quite some space empty on the bad. “You came to ask me something.” He says, it isn’t a question.

“No, just to inform you on the new case.” John tries to leave.

“Wait!” Sherlock stops him. “You can sleep here if you want.” He offers. John’s face grows warm. “Sherlock are you saying you want to...” John asks in a whisper.

“Just if you want to sleep here, if not you can go.”

There’s a long pause. John, thinking of what he has to do next, and what would be the best to do. Then he makes up his mind. He joins Sherlock in the bed.

At first he lies facing away from Sherlock, but then he would have no idea what he was doing, so John switches sides.

Sherlock is looking straight into his eyes. Somehow, he silently switched to his other side. They are very close. “What are you doing?” John asks, in spite of himself. 

“Remembering,” Sherlock responds, “Every detail of your face so I never will forget it.”

“Do I look funny right now?”

Sherlock smirks. “No but you will now.” And he leans forward and kisses him, quickly, right on the mouth. But Sherlock has little time to observe John’s expression, for the kiss is soon returned more aggressively.

John pause, giving Sherlock a second to recover. “You..?” He begins to ask. “Yes,” John gives an answer to the unfinished question, emotion full in his voice, almost as if he was trying not to cry. “Yes, I do.”

Sherlock returns the kiss with another. “Thank you.” And now John knows why he is trying not to cry; because Sherlock already is.

John slips his arms around Sherlock, keeping him is a tight embrace till morning came.


	4. Unfinished

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was going to be a 4th chapter but I didn't get around to writing any more of it, sorry.

John woke, Sherlock's arms still tightly wrapped around him as if his life depended on it. John smiled thinking of how childish Sherlock looked sometimes. This was one of those times.

His head was bowed into John's chest, hair a ruffled mess. Under their lids his eyes wandered around, flicking suddenly to one side then stopping.

He must be dreaming, John thought, I wonder if it's about us. He absentmindedly ran his hand through Sherlock's hair, pondering what had happened the night before and how it would change their lives and their work. Maybe it won't, maybe I'm just being paranoid, I mean, it's not like it will be a surprise for anyone else.

He sat up then, feeling a bit cross at the world for making him the ignorant one that it always unaware of the obviousness in his life. He still had control of his life, just because everyone thought he was gay doesn't mean he was. Then last night's events events came into focus. Yep, he wasn't in control of his life, and he definitely was gay.

John sighed, he would just have to think about it later, now he was going to make breakfast.

Tea made by Mrs. Hudson was already on the side table by John's chair. A few towels from the night before were still scattered throughout the room. The blanket they had sat on was still laying on the floor, discarded.

John straightened out the blanket and sat down on the floor. He took a cup of tea from the tray and set it in his lap and leaned back against the wall.


End file.
